


peace of mind

by fshep



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Blow Jobs, Confessional Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 03:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13989717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fshep/pseuds/fshep
Summary: There's something lurking beneath Goro Akechi's mask, and Akira wants—heneeds—to expose it.





	peace of mind

**Author's Note:**

> this is a blasphemous mess. enjoy.  
> thank you angel/[nafnaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nafnaf/pseuds/nafnaf) for looking it over. ♥

Akechi is obliging enough to meet Akira at the Kanda church, even accepting his flimsy justification as to _why_. It's only when Akira slips into the confessional alongside him does he abruptly lose his cool.

“What are you _doing_?” he hisses, fingers curling into tight fists as Akira sinks down to his knees.

“Confessing my sins.”

Akechi stares at him with parted lips of disbelief.

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you? _Leave_ , before the priest...”

Akira slides his palms along the length of Akechi’s thighs. The uniform fabric is soft against his fingers and just thin enough for the warmth of Akechi’s body to seep into his skin. “Relax. I know you can be quiet. Wouldn’t be much of a Phantom Thief otherwise.” His thumb brushes along the inseam of Akechi’s slacks.

“If you seriously intend to market this as _stealth training_ , you’ll have to be more convincing than that.” Akechi’s hand drops on top of Akira’s head and grasps his hair. Tugs, sharp. Akira looks up at him, mirth evident behind fake lenses, and kisses his belt buckle.

He forgoes a verbal response and focuses on deftly working Akechi’s zipper open. Just as he dips his fingertips behind the band of his briefs, a presence intrudes upon the stall. Akira perks up, pressing his head against Akechi’s abdomen. He pauses, listening to his heartbeat.

It’s steady.

“Father,” Akechi says politely. Despite his talent for keeping calm under duress, it’s clear that he doesn’t know what protocol to follow here. He creates a hesitant variation of the sign of the cross, as if he’s referencing only what he’s seen in movies and banking on its validity. “Forgive me. This is my first confession. I’m unsure of how I should begin…”

“May God the Father of all mercies help you make a good confession,” the kindly priest welcomes. More casually, he advises, “You may now begin to confess. You’re doing well thus far, young man.”

“Thank you,” says Akechi, ever the paragon of good behavior. Akira huffs low beneath his breath, resuming his plight to pull Akechi’s dick from his pants as quietly as possible.

He anticipates resistance; a kick to the gut, or perhaps a verbal admittance of company in order to humiliate Akira.

On the contrary, Akechi’s fingers stay embedded in Akira’s thick, dark hair and only move to pull him closer. Just goes to show that Akira’s intuition never fails him; he knows an exhibitionist when he sees one. He could probably siphon out the rest of Akechi’s kinks, too, but he’s got enough to focus on as it is.

He parts his lips, skimming the length of Akechi’s cock with his tongue, adjusting to the taste and feel of him. He isn’t naïve enough to think that Akechi will spill anything significant to the priest, and certainly not with Akira in the room with him, but he eavesdrops just in case.

“I didn’t tip my server,” he says, tone dripping with false remorse. “I was in a rush—I completely forgot. The bill had been quite large, too…”

  _You never tip me_ , Akira wants to tease. Instead, he takes Akechi into his mouth, satisfied by the hitch of his breath upon doing so.

“I’ve been ignoring my boss,” he adds, and— _Huh._ That could be something to note. There’s a hint of disdain at the tail end of what Akechi says; Akira pauses in anticipation for more detail, but Akechi quickly moves on to something irrelevant and yanks him out of inaction, closer.

Akechi’s gloves creak as he twists and twists his fingers in Akira’s hair. Pleasure spirals down his spine in hot bursts and he doesn’t fight against the hold, relaxing his throat and repressing the urge to gag. Akechi seems sold on keeping him in place, hips flexing, and Akira is certain he plans to cum down Akira’s throat right then and there—until the priest interrupts, prompted by the extended silence from Akechi.

His ears are ringing, eyes glassy; he doesn’t give much of a fuck about what words are being exchanged between the men above him anymore. Akechi’s soft cadence is still impressively controlled despite the way he’s clearly on edge. Akira’s a little peeved; he’d been hoping he could get him to slip up, but it’d be really, momentously bad if they were _actually_ caught. His record is enough of a mess without the addition of public indecency.

He’s bobbing his head in a slow rhythm, lashes fluttering, when he notices one of the doors gently shut.

“Mm? Is he gone?” Akira whispers, leaning back.

At some point Akechi must’ve loosened his tie because it hangs low around his neck, uneven and sloppy. For somebody as uptight and primly dressed as Akechi, the disorder is blindsiding. Akira lets his hands wander, curving around the detective’s thighs and sliding up to cup his ass, drawn to that hint of chaos.

This is what snaps Akechi out of it. He bends, just slightly, and grabs Akira by the jaw.

“ _Finish what you started,”_ he snaps, inhibitions blatantly discarded. If he still intends to play the lamb after this, Akira’s curious to see how he’ll recover his reputation. Between mercilessly slaughtering shadows, fucking Joker’s throat—and, of course, the blackmail—he’s lost whatever merit he’d built as the police department’s golden boy. Not that Akira had been particularly convinced in the first place, but that only contributed further to his intrigue.

And arousal. The ill intent in Akechi’s eyes corresponds with his own hardness and as masochistic as he is, he’s glad that the other boy has chosen not to comment on it. Or maybe he’s too distracted to notice.

He relies on the latter, leaning in to acquiesce. Akechi’s cock is hot and slick between his fingers, precum dripping from the tip and onto Akira’s waiting tongue. It dawns on him that, with the priest’s departure, he can speak—quietly—without risk of being caught.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs before sucking at the head.

Akechi twitches, face flushed, and scowls. “Shut up.”

Oh, how cute. Akira chuckles, feeling fond, and does just that. The façade of privacy means he can increase the pace, suck hard and wet, and relish the way Akechi reacts to him— _because_ of him—and damn, if that’s not a rush.

He squeezes the base of Akechi’s dick and pumps _hard_ , tongue flicking his slit.

“Ah—slow down, or I’ll…”

_Slow down? You were so eager to get off a few minutes ago._

Looks like somebody wants to make the most of this after all. Humming, Akira takes his direction yet again, pulling away.

“I didn’t say _stop_ ,” he says, quick and panicked.

Akira stifles his laugh. “Bossy, bossy. If you’re so particular, why don’t you just fuck my mouth the way you like it best?” Akechi blinks owlishly at him. “I can take it. Promise.”

He’s expecting him to play coy, like he hadn’t just been shamelessly thrusting into Akira’s mouth; to his surprise, Akechi’s hand settles at the back of Akira’s neck to tug him back in, and that’s—it’s good. It’s vulnerable as hell, dizzying as he squeezes, and Akira once again gives himself over to Akechi.

Thick and heavy, Akira’s content to be used until Akechi finally spills onto his tongue with a muted groan.

He mouths at him until he softens, until his panting quiets into a gentle sigh. Akira takes the liberty of tucking him back into his slacks and refastening his belt (while Akechi takes care of his tie) before leaning against Akechi’s thigh to catch his own breath. Only now in the silence does he realize how keyed up he is, jeans tight and thighs quivering, both from the exertion of staying crouched and the tension of his own building heat.

Akechi shifts, stepping back, and Akira falls lightly onto his ass without the support to hold him up. He must look like a mess, because Akechi tilts his head to the side and sneers at him from above.

It only serves to excite Akira further. _Jokes on you, tantei-ouji_. Anything Akechi _thinks_ he can say to gain the upper hand is only going to result in fuel for Akira’s fantasies.

“Allow me to return the favor,” Akechi says, and _oh_. Okay. Akira pushes himself up by the hands only to be kicked back down. The sole of Akechi’s shoe presses hard against Akira’s stomach.

Akira gapes up at him. Akechi drags his foot down to his crotch and digs in.

“ _Ah_.” He squirms. “Akechi...”

“It’s fine like this, isn’t it?”

Akira swallows thickly, unable to find his voice. He nods. Akechi smiles sharply and Akira spreads his legs apart.

What little remains of his pride keeps him quiet, reluctant to willingly hand the rest of it over to Akechi while he’s in such a vulnerable position. Akechi doesn’t seem to like that, hand grasping Akira’s jaw again to force his mouth open. He slips a thumb inside and all Akira tastes is leather.

Akechi grinds his heel against Akira’s clothed dick and he whines, thrilled, mortified, overwhelmed.

“Unbelievable. You’re really getting off on this. Is there something _you’d_ like to confess while you’re here, Kurusu-kun?”

Even if there were, Akira doesn’t have control over his mouth—which is obviously intentional on the detective’s part.

“Reckless behavior,” he recounts, “masochistic tendencies… A surprising lack of shame.” He presses the pad of his thumb down flat onto Akira’s tongue, eliciting him to drool. “Go on. Work for it.”

Dazed, it takes Akira a moment to register what he’s being ordered to do. Face flushing hot, he wraps a hand around Akechi’s ankle to steady himself and ruts slow and desperate against the flat of his shoe.

“If they could witness you now,” Akechi whispers, eyes never leaving Akira’s face for even a moment.

His fingers leave Akira’s mouth to curve beneath his chin, tipping it up to force eye contact. “I could get used to seeing you like this,” he utters like an admittance. Akira’s pulse amplifies tenfold. “Not so infallible anymore, are you, _Leader_?”

Akira clutches harder at his pantleg and jerks unsteadily, body curling into itself as his orgasm builds. Akechi releases his face, allows him to drop his forehead against Akechi’s thigh, and pets Akira’s hair. It’s the echo of tenderness that causes Akira to seize up, cough out a strangled moan, and come undone.

He gradually uncoils as Akechi steps away to stand upright. For one terrifying moment he’s afraid he won’t be able to look at Akechi without quite literally passing out from mortification, but Akechi simply holds out a hand for him to take.

He does. Standing proves to be a challenge, but once he’s on two feet he regains his balance. He shoots Akechi a grateful glance and repays him by being the first one to execute their walk of shame, stepping out of the confessional. The guilt is minor and comes a little too late, as he’s too blissed out to be bothered by the heavy religious air.

At the very least, there are just as many churchgoers as there had been when they first arrived—the same elderly couple toward the front of the pews, seemingly content to spend the evening in silence.

He gives Akechi the all-clear with a wave of his hand. He emerges cautiously and relaxes with the confirmation that they’re safe.

“This has been very… educational. Thank you for inviting me here today.”

Akira stares at him in disbelief, lips spread into a crooked smile. He huffs a laugh, loud, and Akechi bristles.

“What?”

“That’s it?” He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans forward into Akechi’s space. Without the illusion of privacy from the booth, Akechi backs away, eyes flickering around the room as if concerned that paparazzi are lingering in the church corridors. “You know, you’re a lot more fun when you aren’t pretending to be somebody you’re not.”

There’s still sweat clinging to the side of Akechi’s neck, but his smile is unwavering. Unthreatened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, tugs at the hem of his gloves. “Regardless, I have to wonder who exactly you think I am.”

“Someone I’d really like to get to know.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, glancing away. “He doesn’t exist.”

Akechi isn’t looking at him, so Akira rolls his eyes. Irritating. Akechi’s so caught up in being deep and avoidant that he can’t see the blatant offer on the table. _I know you’re working for somebody_ , is on the tip of his tongue. _I know you’re like us—I can see it in your Persona, in the way you fight like you’ve been fighting your whole life. Let me in. Let me help._

Instead, he places a gentle hand between Akechi’s shoulders and urges him toward the door. Somehow, suddenly, the church feels stifling. Oppressive—like God is laughing at the futility of breaking down Akechi’s walls.

“Well, if that’s all,” says Akechi as the setting sun alights his features and reminds Akira, unfortunately, of how drop-dead gorgeous he is. “I’ll be going.”

Fake. Fake, fake, fake. Akira’s so sick of it. Where’s all that anger and aggression? _Pent-up, uppity asshole. Give me something real to work with._

“What if it’s not?” says Akira, unbidden.

“Eh?”

“Maybe I have more planned for us. What then?”

“Well… forgive me for saying so, but I’m not certain I’ll believe you if you continue to insist this is to improve my condition as a Phantom Thief.”

Akira realizes he’s pouting as he retorts, “That’s the only excuse I can use to get you to actually hang out with me. What happened to how often you enthused about our _talks_ —or, that one time? Remember? You said something about fate…” He shakes his head, exaggeratedly morose.

Akechi’s lips part in almost innocent surprise. “But that was just—”

He cuts himself off and Akira’s brow quirks, expectant.

_Just what? Your attempts at convincing me to let my guard down? Painting yourself as somebody innocent?_

“It’s all right, _Akechi-kun_. You’re a pretty good flirt, but I’m getting tired of all of these mixed signals…”

A sigh. “You’re insufferable.”

It’s not the time nor the place, but they’re alone in the silence that follows so Akira reaches for Goro’s hand and holds it loosely. He’s tired of being passive. He’s tired of watching Akechi distance himself, further, further—

Akechi squeezes back, and Akira can’t tell if it’s indulgent or sincere—or both.

“Come back to Leblanc with me.” He faces Akechi fully. “Stay over. Tomorrow’s Sunday—let’s do something fun together.

He gets a wary look in response.

“Like _see a movie_. We could hit up the mall, or take a walk around the park…”

Akechi still seems dubious, so Akira pulls out the big guns.

“I’ll buy you lunch. Sushi?”

“Alright.”

Akira recoils. “Jesus. Who are you, Morgana? That was too easy.”

When Akechi smiles, it’s big and sunny, but this time his eyes crinkle at the corners and Akira thinks he managed to wring out a genuine laugh. He ignores the outrageous pounding of his heart and reminds himself that it’s not safe to fall for him just yet. Amazing sex, devastatingly, does _not_ negate an assassination plot.

Maybe he’s just agreeing to hang out to avoid friction and reinforce the notion that he’s on their side, but that’s fine. Akechi could’ve cited work as an excuse, but he didn’t. Akira’s willing to grasp at straws if it hazards a chance at avoiding the clusterfuck that’s on the horizon. Maybe he _won’t_ have to wager his life against Sae Nijima’s trust after all.

High hopes and dismal odds don’t promote a happy conclusion. Still, Akira tugs Akechi in the direction of the station and doesn’t regret it. He can’t. He won’t.


End file.
